Desperate Souls
by charliethedreamer
Summary: Captain Swan Teen AU: She's an untrusting long-time orphan. He's the lonely son of a raging alcoholic. Both seventeen, both searching for an escape. When Emma's new foster family brings her to the apartment next door, can these two desperate souls find solace in each other? Or are they both just too long broken?


_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or once upon a time. It sucks, I know._

_A/N: This idea came to me one lowly Sunday dinner. I hope you enjoy :) _

* * *

At seventeen there are some things that Emma Swan knows for sure. Her birthday is in April. She's an orphan, or as good as. She likes cinnamon and hates custard.

The thing she is most certain of, however, is that she categorically and fundamentally _does not want to be here. _

_Here we go again _she thinks dryly as the car pulls round a corner, a tall apartment building coming into sight. She adds a mental tally to the chart in her head, the _apartment _column now bearing three small lines with the _house _column bearing seven.

The Volkswagen pulls into a parking space in front of the redbrick establishment, the red-haired sharp-eyed social worker assigned to her - a cold hearted bitch who goes by the name of Miss Tyler - pulling out the keys. She turns to Emma and gives her a tight lipped smile. "Ready?" She asks.

"As I'll ever be." She grumbles in response, opening the car door and going to the boot to retrieve her bag. After looking over to check that Miss Tyler is still leaning on the hood with a muted expression on her sharp jawed face, she quickly unzips her back, checking briefly that the only thing of actual value in there has survived the journey unharmed.

The small elevator takes them up to the top floor, Emma casting nervous glances to the bag that sits at her feet and praying her cargo doesn't make itself known. The last thing she needs is to have it confiscated.

Miss Tyler has to pull out her itinerary from her black leather briefcase - it's designer, bringing Emma to the conclusion that she has a rich partner somewhere up-state - to check which apartment number her new home is. Must be a fruitfully tiresome job, being a social worker. Having to ferry around feral cast aways and remove unwilling children from the claws of unsuitable parenting. She imagines that not only does it pay next to nothing but it must quite un-fulfilling and it's no wonder, really, that she hasn't come across a nice one yet.

She has a whole other algorithm for why she is yet to encounter a nice set of foster parents, and she wonders what these two will be like, immediately squashing any hopes her naive and fundamentally lost five year old self would have had, many of which featured kind hearted folk who, once realising what a _poor _and _tourtered _soul she is would gracefully welcome her into their arms. It takes one look at her new mother to know that alas - it shall not be the case.

If Emma had familiarised herself with the term _white trash _she supposes it is one that she might suitably apply to her new foster mother. She muses _mutton dressed as lamb _suits her pretty well, also.

She has artificial blonde hair styled in that deliberately scruffy way that seems to work with photoshopped models on the front of hair dye boxes but never translates well in real life. Thick and clumpy mascara coats her eyelashes and she has a dash of her cheap looking pink lipstick on the front of one of her yellowing teeth.

After a few exchanged words with the social worker she is left by herself in the presence of her new guardian. Emma raises a bored eyebrow as she - she going by the name of Mrs Downham - gives her what seems to be a deliberately indiscreet once over, scrunching up her nose slightly in an expression that borders on disapproving, confirming Emma's speculation that this lot are probably no different from the last people; gold digging trash using her as a glorified money pot. _One more year _she thinks wistfully. _One more god damn year._

"You gonna show me where to put my stuff?" Emma asks. She's long since given up on the _polite _charade; it's been a long day and she's rather looking forward to shutting herself in her room - whatever shit hole they provide her with - and maybe reading some more of her book. And music. Definitely music.

"Manners, child." Mrs Downham reprimands, stalking down the hallway with Emma in tow. The door appears to be at the end of the apartment, a long corridor stretching down the length of the place with rooms coming off just the one side, a kitchen...a living room...a bathroom...closed door (their bedroom, she supposes) before at the very end of the hallway her mother - a term Emma uses very loosely, because it's easy more than anything else - holds open the door for her before turning around and disappearing into the living room.

_Home sweet home. _Glancing back to check the door is indeed shut she places her bag on the bed in the corner, checking again to make sure there wasn't some deluded foster uncle standing in the corner of her bedroom before unzipping her bag to the full and pulling out the secret she's managed to keep for three foster homes now.

The cat purrs softly as she pulls it out, taking it into her arms and scratching its soft grey fur fondly. "Hey Callie." She whispers. "Was the journey all right?" She reaches into her back, rummaging around until she can reach into the box that wholes the cat food - stolen, but hey, for a good cause - taking a handful and feeding it to the adult tabby cat. She takes a moment to examine her knew space, noting the the dresser that stands a little away from the bed. At the back of the room there is a large window with fading blinds, and, surprisingly, a door.

With her pet tucked under he arm she pulls down the handle, the relatively mild but nevertheless crisp early spring air flowing into the room as she steps out onto the balcony, closing the door behind her. It takes a mere glance to know that this balcony is at the back of the building; the car park not in sight. Instead it looks out onto a desolate street with rather abandoned looking shops, the concrete structures thinning out the further she looks, the large lake Emma had spotted on the drive up visible in the distance.

There's a rickety looking bench pressed back up against the wall with a fading cushion spanning across the length of it, and she places Callie down there. She steps up to the black railing, wind blowing her hair back as she looks around. There's no balcony above her, her new 'home' being on the top floor of the building, but one directly to her left, about half a meter away from the one she's standing one, clearly belonging to the apartment next to hers.

_Hm. At least they gave me the room with the balcony. _She heads back into her room, clawing through her bag until she finds her book and Ipod.

Her book is called_ Your Ticket Out _and has been read and re-read by Emma in such an aggressive cycle that if the time ever comes she could probably recite the whole thing. It had been recommended to her by a teacher at not the last school but the one before that, a goodbye present of sorts when her run in with the cops had meant new home which had meant new school. She - she being Miss French, English teacher - had said she'd thought she'd like it and she'd accepted it with a small smile.

The protagonist is a girl called Jo. See, at the time when it had been gifted to her she'd been more than fed up with the portrayal of girls and women in books. Having their lives changed by boys and men who pick them off their feet and - ugh. Jo was different. She wasn't just _strong _or _tough. _She was _real. __Complicated. _She had pain that she covered up with layers of sarcasm and ironic humor, calling men out on their shit and at the same time barely holding it together. Probably the reason why Emma can never bring herself to read anything else.

She sits down on the bench, stretching out her legs and lifting them up to rest against the railing, and opens her book. Pulling out her worn Ipod Nano, she turns it over, brushing her thumb over the series of errant scratches at the top. Even with the marks she'd created after going at it with the flat blade of her scissors you can still make out the engraving: _Happy Birthday, Princess. _Her mouth twitches slightly into a would be a scowl if she hadn't quickly turned it back over, inserting the only working earphone and letting Cal crawl into her lap.

For the first time all day, Emma feels somewhat at peace, stroking the yellowing pages of her book with an absent minded thumb like she's done countless times before, one hand doing the same to her cat, who starts to doze, the lazy bugger that she is - it's not like she's had a whole car journey to sleep, or anything. It's a calming ritual, one which does its best to keep her mind away from the somewhat more stressful matters currently pending. The fact that the day after tomorrow she has to go to yet another new school - something she'd promised wouldn't happen - and the fact that this year she has to sit fucking _exams _to name a few.

It is after around fifteen minutes of reading and general 'quiet time' that Emma finds herself interrupted by a sudden presence on the balcony next to hers.

She looks up from her book in time to see the door fly open, muffled yelling coming from within.

* * *

Killian hates shouting.

He _hates _it. And not just in the way that one might hate coffee or bean sprouts or an ex-girlfriend they've come to hold a general disdain for. No, he _hates _it. And yet, it seems to be just as much of a regular occurrence in his household as dinner or breakfast.

He shuts his door, hoping it will subside soon, whilst a screamed _"Well, at least I don't smell like a fucking brewery all the time!" _Drifts through the door in what he recognises as his brother's voice. He winces at the sound, behaving like a five year old whose parents are arguing. Then again - he muses - that's probably what _him _in _that _state makes him feel like, turns him into.

He takes a deep breath, making for the door at the back of his bedroom and stepping out onto the balcony. Muttering the words _bloody hell_ he grips at the ends in his hair in evident frustration. He moves to stand at the edge of his balcony, hands curling around the railing until his knuckles turn white, raven hair hanging over his eyes as he leans over the railing, looking down onto the street below.

He straightens up after a second of heavy breathing, being chased by the odd feeling that someone is watching him, and it's only until there's a furry presence at the bottom of his legs that his suspicion is confirmed. When he looks up, turning to the balcony next to his - the one that is usually un-occupied (excusing the bench) - he is met by the sight of an unfamiliar girl with an annoyed slash bemused look on her face, hissing the word _Cal _to what assumes is her cat.

He looks to the animal, who is rubbing her - his? - head against one of his legs. He then looks up to the girl, who shoots him a briefly apologetic look. She's pretty - he notices - undoubtedly so. She has blonde hair that falls in curls about her face and is dressed in a way that he finds unmistakeably attractive. Tight black Jeans; slightly worn, black converse; more than slightly worn, and quite a low hanging what looks to be Green Day t-shirt.

"I didn't know the Downhams had a cat." He remarks, thinking to the couple who live in the neighbouring apartment, the pair that Liam had referred to as American Scum At Its Finest, trying to recall any characteristics he had noticed that would render them likely to adopt a cat. Or have a teenage child. "_Or _a daughter"

Seemingly having given up on calling back her pet - Cal, was it? - who is now circling his balcony with a mild intrigue that all cats seem to hold, she doesn't lift her head from the book she's reading.

"Good for you." She says simply.

He moves to the edge of the balcony closest to hers, crossing his arms and leaning them against the railing, his attention stolen from the raging war taking place in his apartment and captured completely by this mysterious new neighbour of his. "Wait - they _don't _have a daughter." She doesn't reply. "Who are you?" He asks, trying and failing not be brash.

"The girl who the cat belongs to. And the one who's trying to read." She dead-pans. "If you don't mind." She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture, one which he completely ignores.

"Niece?" Killian guesses with an arched eyebrow and she shakes her head in a disinterested fashion, one in which only enlarges his curiosity.

"Kay..." He muses. "...I can hardly imagine them adopting...foster kid?"

"Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner." She drawls. "Ten points to Griffyindor."

"Slytherin." He corrects and she rolls her eyes. He steps up onto the bottom of the railing, leaning over and offering her his hand. "Killian Jones."

She raises an eyebrow but leans over anyway, shaking his hand. "Emma Swan."

"Well, then, _Emma Swan_." He smirks. "What you reading?"

"A book." She replies shortly. It's a tone that suggest she would much rather leave the conversation as it was, to wit, not developing, but Killian Jones isn't generally the sort to give up on a challenge. There's also the fact that for the past three weeks, it being the last weekend of the Easter holidays, he's spent heinous amounts of time at the cafe, working extra shifts and has been more or less starved of the company of someone his own age. Not that he doesn't love that lot - because he does - but there's only so much Ruby Talk you can take.

"What's it about?" He asks.

"This and that."

"This and that." He repeats, looking back to her cat which is now having a seemingly enjoyable time scratching at the redbrick wall that surrounds his door. "What's your cat called?"

"Callie. Cal for short." She replies, lifting her head and craning her neck to see what _Callie _is getting up to.

"Nice name." He comments. "I see you didn't go for the generic 'mittens' or 'fluffy'."

She gives a small scoff at that, shaking her head lightly and turning it back to her book. "Don't see why anyone would want to torture their pet so."

He ponders this. "I guess that's fair. Where'd you get her?"

"The street."

He frowns. "She's a stray?"

"_Was _a stray." She corrects. "Now she's mine." A subtle look of fondness crosses her features at the statement and he finds the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile.

"You gonna tell that lot about her?" He asks, nodding behind her to the door into her apartment.

"No." She says with a small sigh. He feels fur brush past his arm as Callie comes up onto the rail, balancing on it in a manner that only cats seem able to achieve. The feline lingers for a second before jumping across the gap and onto the other balcony, hopping onto the bench and curling into Emma's side. "You're my little secret." She says to the cat, gently stroking the fur in between his ears. "Aren't you, girl?"

The smile that was already beginning to show on his face grows. "How long have you had her?"

"About three years." She replies.

"How many parents have you kept her a secret from?" He asks, unfortunately doing so _after _realising that it's a rather insensitive question, not to mention quite prying for someone you've only just met.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his. They're sharp and green with little brown flecks, not to mention quite frankly glaring at him. "It's a number between one and _none of your business." _She answers coolly and he almost winces. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." She mutters in response and he guesses that maybe it's time for him to depart, let her get back to her _this and that _book.

He hops of the bottom rail. "Well, I'll see you around." He pauses. "_Neighbour." _

"Yeah, Yeah." He hears her reply as he heads back into his apartment with a smile on his face that certainly wasn't there when he left.

It's a smile that fades with in an instant after the dread-worthy crash of glass smashing sounds from the other room. The previously held frustrated ache returns and with a positively defeated sigh he moves over to the wall of his bedroom, sliding down it whilst he rubs at his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling, praying to an unspecified deity - or anyone really, beggars can't be choosers - _please, just give me a fucking break._

* * *

Emma watches with a slight frown as Killian - the annoyingly attractive British sounding kid, who looks to be about her age - disappears back into his apartment. He is the sort that she would - if she wasn't currently, and _firmly, _lingering in a state of general disinterest - find attractive. Dark features, tall but not quite lanky, wearing dark wash not _too _skinny jeans with a dark blue button down hanging open over a black t-shirt. Once upon a time, he would have been precisely her type - if fifteen year old orphans _have _types - but not now. As previously mentioned; state of general - and enforced - disinterest. _Remember why you're here. _She reminds herself firmly, forcing herself to turn her attention back to her book.

She continues like that - music playing in one ear, Callie tucked under her arm, book in hand - until she hears the tell-tale call for _dinner. _When she sits down at the table, microwaved take-out meal laid out in front of her, she is met with the rather consuming presence of who she assumes is Mr Downham, a foster father who she soon learns makes up for what he lacks in neck in rude disposition and apparently short temper.

She allows her mind to drift as she eats her food - however poorly made - pretending to ignore the glances going back and forth between her two foster parents, not bothering to excuse herself as she finishes her food.

She makes her way back to her bedroom, the sounds of hushed voices - about her, no doubt - carrying through the hallway until the shuts them out with the resounding click of her door.

Letting out a shaky breath, she reminds herself of _just one more year. _She sticks her head out onto the balcony where she finds Callie curled up in a ball - she always did prefer to sleep outside - before going back inside.

Figuring that she's too far gone to give up the ritual she had started a long while ago to give up now she looks to her dresser. She goes into her bag, making a deft note to unpack, pulling out her pencil case and withdrawing her scissors.

She pulls the rather shabby - probably second hand - piece of furniture away from the wall with ease, sitting cross-legged behind it. Opens the scissors, she grips them like a knife and carefully scratches one small line into the bottom left corner of the wood. "One down." She whispers to herself, leaning her head against the back of the wall.

* * *

_A/N: So that's the first chapter :) Hope you liked, reviews are always appreciated xx_


End file.
